Muggle Number 3
by Anda Faith
Summary: Canon Compliant; The Muggle Resistance. It happened when he was 9. Old enough where he knew exactly what was going on and that this surely was not part of his imagination, but young enough where no one would ever believe him. And no one ever would. How implausible was this whole thing? Even if he wanted to tell someone, how would he even begin to put words to it?
**Author's Note:** This fic wasn't written by me. It was written to me by my boyfriend as a gift and it is with his permission that I post this here. I'm biased and my opinions of this fic are as such, but I hope you enjoy reading it as I have.

 **Disclaimer:** Anything you recognize, I do not own. This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and various publishers including – but not limited to – Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

 **MUGGLE #3**

It happened when he was 9. Old enough where he knew exactly what was going on and that this surely was not part of his imagination, but young enough where no one would ever believe him. And no one ever would. How implausible was this whole thing? Even if he wanted to tell someone, how would he even begin to put words to it?

It was Christmas Day. They were all bright and happy, him, his mother and his surly old father. They were sitting around the tree. It was half past seven exactly. He remembered that because he had been staring at the clock hung above the fireplace when it had happened. His hand had been on his gift, one that his surly old father had thrust into his hand not but a minute before. Father never did well before 10 in the morning. Father was a postman – that was why he was surly all the time.

Ten seconds past 7:30 in the morning and there were _people in his fireplace._

When he saw the floating head, he sincerely thought that someone had gone and spiked his tea with hallucinogens. In fact, he had almost dismissed it as a dream when the floating head _spoke._ Then his mother had screamed and his father had done the only manly thing in his life and had shoved his son behind his not that intimidating body.

But that didn't stop the boy from looking around his father's round belly at the panicked head. For a second the head disappeared and the family of three knew not what to do or what to make of the situation. There was a stiff silence that was forever seared into his mind. It asked: _was that real? Did that really happen? Was there really a head of a man in our fireplace or did we collectively imagine that?_

But a second later, there was a man climbing _out_ of said fireplace and then another. Soon there were three fireplace men standing on the rug, leaving ashy footprints that would surely give his mother a second heart attack (if she would ever recover from the first).

"I _told_ you, you connected to the wrong house!" one of the men said. He had a big nose and a wart. When he spoke, mother squeaked. "Come on then. Back we go."

"Apologies," the first man had said – the previously floating head. "You know how these things go."

"They're _muggles,_ you idiot!"

" _Oh!"_ the two of them gasped.

The boy was confused. Mother was shaking. Father reached for the fire iron and brandished it against the men. They raised their hands in the universal signal for surrender and slowly backtracked into the flames from which they'd come. Father bellowed. Mother burst into tears. The men tried to placate the postman, but the postman hadn't worked 35 years to have his Christmas be interrupted by _demon folk._

Mother shoved the boy under the couch. It was a tight fit, considering the space wasn't meant for human occupancy. But mother didn't seem to care and when mother got an idea into her head she didn't let up until she'd seen it through. They had that in common, the mother and the boy. The boy watched his father bellow and shout and he became frightened. Not because the sight was intimidating or anything, but because men who could come out of flames would only tolerate so much of this shouting.

The men didn't have to do anything after all. Not but a moment later there were three consecutive cracks that sounded quite like a car backfiring and three men appeared into their living room _out of thin air._

 _Out. Of. Thin. Air._

Now there were six demon folk in his living room and his mother had fainted right in front of him, blocking his view out into the living room. He supposed he couldn't be too cross with her. After all, she couldn't control how she fainted now could she? Nevertheless, all the boy had to go on was the gasps and the noises and the irritating bellow of his father as he unsuccessfully attempted to get rid of the six men intruding on their Christmas morning.

Mother was rolled over suddenly and one of the men was pointing a stick at her. The boy looked out and saw that his father was being restrained by one of the men that had appeared out of thin air. Another was also pointing a wooden stick at her. The boy had never seen anything so odd in his admittedly short life, but he knew there was something completely unnatural about this. Whatever was about to happen wasn't _meant_ to happen. He immediately became glad that his mother had had the foresight to stuff him under here.

And then there was a bright flash. He was momentarily blinded and consequently missed what happened next. They laid his father next to his mother. Perhaps the flash had killed them both? The two men were putting their sticks away and he then knew that _they_ had caused the flash. They had killed his mother and father!

"Wasn't there a boy?" The first man said, the one that had had his head floating in the fireplace.

They had killed his parents and now they were going to kill them too!

"Don't be ridiculous!" one of the other fireplace men said. "It was just these two. Now let's go before they wake up again."

The fireplace men retreated back to whence they had came – back to the fireplace, which had suddenly turned _green_ – and the other men just twisted and disappeared back into thin air. Were they ghosts? Was this some sort of sorcery? He knew not. All he could do was stay crammed under that cramped little couch until his parents woke up so they could make a collective run for it.

They eventually _did_ wake up, but they did not make any sort of run for it.

"What are you doing under the couch, boy?" the father asked, perplexed. "What in god's name are we doing lying on the floor? What have you done, Luke?"

"The men from the fireplace put you there father. I'm hiding in case they come back," the boy calmly stated.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling!" his mother laughed in that slightly alarmed way she had. It said – why on earth do I have such an odd boy for a child? Why didn't I finish my education instead of marrying this idiot of a postman? Why on earth did I give up my maiden name for _Evansworth?_ "Come on out from under there, sweetheart. You're getting your new jumper all dusty."

But before he could, the fireplace turned green once more and there were new men crawling out of it. His mother once again screamed and his father, in an attempt to be brave once again, picked up the fire iron and brandished it against the new men, who raised their hands up in the universal sign of surrender and attempted to retreat back into the flames from whence they had come.

The boy just watched from underneath the sofa with wider eyes than was strictly normal. But there was nothing normal about that day, really.

It wasn't until much later that the boy learned that his odd neighbour who smelled strongly of garlic was a wizard. On that particular Christmas day, his wizard neighbour had thrown a party inviting all of his wizard friends. Only, he had put the wrong address on the card.

The incident repeated itself three times. The boy hadn't known it then, crammed as he was under the couch, but the wizards who were apparating into his living room were performing memory charms on his parents. That meant that they couldn't remember a thing about what was going on. So even though the boy saw everything – _everything –_ he had no one else to back up his story. And even if he tried to explain it to anyone anyway, who would believe him? Who could ever believe such a fantastical story?

No one.

Eventually he did crawl out from under the sofa. They dusted off his jumper as if _he_ were the crazy one and made him sit there and open presents, even though it was no longer Christmas morning.

He never forgot about that odd day. Not when his father offed himself because he couldn't stop seeing bright flashes everywhere and all the time. Not when his mother lost her memory (which he knew was because of the memory charms, he just _knew_ it). And not even when he was too old to be making up fantastical stories about people appearing out of thin air and crawling out of his fireplace.

He knew exactly what he'd seen. It didn't matter what anyone else said. It was what it was and one day he would find a way to prove it.

It happened many years later. He was married now. Even had a little boy of his own. Of course, he never shared any of his revelations with his family. They all thought he was a boring little accountant, working the usual 9 to 5 in smoggy old London. And he did. Of course he did. Those bills didn't pay themselves. But every Friday, just after he'd visited his mother in the asylum for those with wonky memories, he'd wander the streets of dreary old London in hopes of seeing a flash. Or perhaps catching men appearing out of nowhere in odd clothing brandishing sticks.

Luke Evansworth didn't know what he was going to accomplish by doing this, never had. But it was an odd little habit he'd indulged since his father had killed himself by trying to hang himself down their chimney. Mother had been on strings before the event and had lost it completely afterwards. She forgot about the whole incident (along with the rest of her life) promptly afterwards. But Luke never forgot anything. Luke remembered every little detail since ten seconds past seven thirty on Christmas Morning since he was nine years old.

Now Luke was married and had this whole secret life. Granted, the secret life wasn't giving him any answers and Luke didn't know what he would do with those answers once he found them anyways. As if he would ever find them at all doing this meaningless exercise of wandering. But it was something. It was a tribute to his useless dead father and his rotting old mother. It was a testament to the knowledge he harboured inside of him.

 _He knew what he'd saw. It had been real, but who on earth was ever going to believe him?_

"Mr. Evansworth?" There was a nurse speaking to him. He raised his head to acknowledge the woman, but not much else. "Your mother is ready to see you now."

He went to see her every Friday. Partly because he needed an alibi to tell his wife to cover for the sick little wandering game he indulged in every week, but also because he had this annoying sense of obligation towards the old lady. It wasn't like she remembered him all the time. He didn't need to show up to placate someone who didn't recall she had a son – had lived her whole life not wanting a son. But he did anyways.

Maybe it was because she had been there when _it_ had happened. Even though she'd never believe him if he dared tell her, she had been there and what was happening to her now was proof that those devil men had existed and had done _something._ Their family had no history of Alzheimer's. Their family history was perfect! Luke knew what had happened. It was why he wandered so aimlessly all these years even though it bore no fruit.

"Luke!" his mother exclaimed shrilly from her seat on the couch. They were in the common room where all the other abandoned loony people congregated in the evenings. It was a mockery of a social life, but Luke supposed it was necessary some of the nurses got some social time too. "Why haven't you brought your father with you?"

It was one of those days for her. They came and went. Sometimes she didn't remember him at all. On those days he just sat and watched her for as long as he could bear before leaving to engage in his night time activities. But he had no patience for her today. Today he felt on edge.

"Men brandishing wooden sticks came and took him away," Luke said simply. Mother stared. Luke stared back. "He strung himself up in our chimney like a turkey on sale, mother. Don't you remember?"

Mother shook her head. She said ghastly things to Luke. Luke didn't flinch because at least she wasn't staring off into space when she was screaming at him. He thought it might be a little good for her, even if she was bulging at the eyes, veins all popping out. She was monstrously ugly to him then, but she was his mother, so he endured it.

 _They had done this to her._

When the nurses finally took her away, she was practically foaming at the mouth and Luke was exhausted. He hated these Fridays more than he cared to admit. He wondered if this was going to be his future. Would his boy come and visit him in the loony bin, he wondered? Would he purposely make his father foam at the mouth so that the father could _feel_ something once in a while? Surely those numbing drugs couldn't be all that good for you.

"I heard what you said, you know," said one of the old men. The decrepit little thing had come to occupy his mother's vacated seat on the couch. Luke simply stared. "I heard what you said about the Wizards and what they did to your father."

Luke's ears perked up at that. "Wizards?"

"That's what they're called, those men in robes brandishing their wands," the old man said. "I've been watching your mother, I have. A memory charm gone wrong, I suppose?"

"How do you know all this?" Luke demanded. There was a funny feeling in his chest, something he hadn't felt in years. Perhaps decades now. "Where can I find them?"

"Oh, you don't want to _find_ them," the old man said dismissively, waiving a hand. It was as if to say Luke was a ridiculous little boy. Luke _hated_ feeling like a ridiculous little boy. He was about to say so when the man continued. "Part of a society I was until they caught me and carted me here. I suspect old James is still at it though!"

Luke listened and paid attention because that is what Luke was good at. He never did forget a single thing. That was why he was such a great accountant, too, even though he loathed it and loathed life itself. So he listened to the instructions, listened all about this secret society. But he couldn't believe this man because this man was in a loony bin after all. But this man was the only one that had ever _believed_ Luke and Luke quite liked the feeling of being believed.

"Visiting hours are over, sir," a nurse said, finally cutting their conversation short.

Luke left because Luke was an upstanding citizen. But he thought all about that conversation during his wanderings. He replayed the instructions in his head. Some of them honestly didn't make sense. Perhaps the old man really was bonkers and was just trying to lead him to his death. But then... there _was_ that little bit of Luke that knew what was real and what was going on and _he knew what he had saw, alright?_

When he went back the next week and inquired about the decrepit old man, a nurse told him that the man had had a seizure and had died just yesterday and that she was _oh so sorry for your loss, sir._

Mother didn't remember him that week. Mother didn't remember him for the next ten years. Luke just continued on wandering.

It happened about a year later. The old decrepit man was dead. His mother didn't recognize him anymore. He was sick and tired of wandering London every Friday night. It had been years upon years and he had nothing to show for his exploits except for a dirty pair of shoes that his wife wanted to throw away every time she saw them.

He still wasn't sure why he wouldn't let her. But then again, it was the only proof he had for all of his effort. It would be a shame to abandon that too.

It was out of sheer desperation to get out of the monotonous pattern that Luke finally followed the dead old decrepit man's instructions. He remembered them as if it were yesterday. In fact, it might as well have been yesterday. Nothing had changed significantly from that Friday onwards. Luke's life was very boring. He _was_ an accountant, after all.

A skip, a hop, and step away from Kings Cross was a grate that looked like it led to the sewers. When Luke lifted it (with a lot of heaving effort) he found that – indeed – it did lead to the sewers. What a surprise that was. Some things really were just as they seemed. He reconsidered if he really ought to go through with this when he saw a couple of rats run past. He had to shrug at himself, put his torch between his teeth and climb the grimy little ladder down into the muck that was surely there.

It was three kilometers down the left tunnel. Luke didn't know exactly how to map something like that out, so he had to eyeball it. And then it was two tunnels, first left and then right. Then left and another slight right, after which there was a gate in front of a wooden door. It was the oddest thing Luke had ever seen – even odder then demon men brandishing sticks. Who had ever heard of a wooden door down in the depths of a sewer?

Well, he had to shrug again because there was not much else for it. It would be a shame not to see this through since he'd ruined his favourite pair of shoes beyond repair.

He opened the gate with a big squeaky noise to announce his presence and then raised a fist and knocked. It was a thump and a crack and a loud patting. It was the silliest secret knock he'd ever heard, really. He almost felt a little silly doing it. Luke was many things, but he was hardly _silly._ Minus the weekly random street wandering, of course.

The wooden door opened immediately. Luke thought that perhaps whoever was on the other side had been alerted by the squeaking of the gate. In any case, he was more than a little bit startled when a big bear of a man grabbed him by the arm and pulled him in through the odd wooden door into what looked like a laboratory harboured in a...sewer cavern.

"Who are _you_? Where's Stubby?" the old man demanded.

He had a pipe in his mouth, a dusty leather coat that skimmed the floor, and a polka dot shirt. Luke wasn't sure what to think. The man was a good deal taller than him. Perhaps six feet and a half. Luke had to tilt his head to even look in the man's eyes. When he did he noticed they were mismatched. It was disconcerting.

"Well then, let the man at least have a drink," drawled a voice from behind the bulk of bear man. This man was wearing perfectly pressed trousers and a crisp linen shirt. He was dressed rather posh for a sewer cavern. "Come in, come in, make yourself at home! Fancy a martini?"

"Who is Stubby?" Luke asked rather calmly. The bear man had not stopped manhandling him. "Who are you?"

"Well, _I_ am Darius Smythe-Higgens the Fourth and that crazy old man is Commander James Stewart," said the overdressed fellow. He had pulled out a silver flask and a martini glass out of nowhere. "We are the _resistance._ "

"The resistance?"

" _Shut up, Darius_ ," Commander James Stewart the bear man snarled. He resumed his shaking of Luke. Luke did not even flinch. "Who are you? How did you find us? Did the Wizard folk send you? Where is Stubby!"

"Well, then, at least let the man get a word in," Darius the posh fellow with the flask said. "Fancy a cigarette, mate?"

Luke was still being manhandled so he could only shake his head to politely decline. "The man in the asylum gave me directions, but he's dead now."

"Dead!" the both of them exclaimed.

"Well, then!" Darius added with a sad shake of his perfectly coifed head. "I suppose a drink in old Stubby's honour!"

"They did get him in the end, they did," said commander the bear man.

"Not to be rude," Luke interrupted. "But resistance for _what_?"

"Well, didn't old Stubby tell you, chap?" Darius the posh man with a flask asked. Luke could only shake his head again.

"We are the resistance, boy! It's only us between those demon wizards and the rest of the civilian population!" James Stewart the bear man interjected.

Darius only rolled his eyes, lighting another cigarette. "Well, now you've got him going. Might want to take a seat, then."

Luke lowered himself onto an overturned box. "They're overrunning us and controlling our _minds!_ They kill us off by the droves and think we don't notice? Well we do! We know it _all._ They burn our bridges, take our women, poison our wells-"

"Well, get on with it man! I'm getting old over here!" Darius the posh man with the flask then propped his feet onto a tiny desk overflowing with papers. This seemed to be a routine occurrence to Luke. He didn't know what to make of it. "We've got to get home eventually, then!"

Luke wholeheartedly agreed.

"Yes, yes," James Stewart the bear man conceded. "Welcome to the resistance, boy. State your name and your purpose."

"Luke Evansworth, sir," Luke said. He wasn't sure if he ought to stand up and salute the man or not. He wasn't even sure whether or not he should make a run for it to the exit. "They both got my parents with memory charms when I was nine."

"Well, what a shame!" Darius the posh man with the flask exclaimed. "They got my sister with a broom."

"A _what_?"

"Well, a broom, of course!" he said with a flick of his hand. "They ride them, these wizard folk. Crashed right into her. Died on impact, I should say, it was quite a tragedy. Wiped my mother's memory, they did. She still thinks it was a motor accident!"

James Stewart the bear man patted Luke's shoulder. "I got myself a bad patch. They came hunting for us like we was sport. Killed off the lot of my family, all twelve of them."

Luke didn't know what to say. He could only stare.

"Well, then! We are the muggle army," Darius the posh man who had put away his flask said. Luke looked at him in confusion. "They've labelled us muggles," he explained. "It's mighty derogatory _apparently_. I thought it was rather charming. So that is what we call ourselves. Commander is Muggle the first, I am muggle the second, and good old Stubby, may that old bastard rest in peace, was Muggle #3."

"Yes, you'll take over Stubby's position, may that old bastard rest in peace," the bear commander added.

"Well, how lovely!" Darius added. "You can be muggle #3."

"Lovely, indeed..."

Luke wasn't sure at that moment, but it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. If nothing else, he knew he'd come to the right place. These people spoke his language and _agreed_ that what Luke had seen was real. There would be no more wandering for Luke. Not anymore. Now he was Muggle #3. Good things came to those who waited. Luke had apparently waited just long enough.

It happened over the course of several years.

Luke still had a lot of catching up to do before he could properly fill Stubby's (may that good old bastard rest in peace) slot as muggle #3. It was like taking a crash course in a whole other universe. Or biology. Luke had always hated biology. But where good old commander James Stewart was grumpy and impatient, Darius the eccentric posh man taught him everything there was to know about the wizarding world whilst wearing a three piece suit, drinking a martini, and speaking with an always lit cigarette between his teeth.

Luke did not know any other man who would dress so elaborately to come hide in a sewer cave. For that matter, James didn't know a man who could smoke as much as Darius did without leaving a trail of ash everywhere he went. Where on earth did all of that ash go?

It took Luke months to learn things. He learned that brooms and cauldrons and wands _weren't_ just the stuff of myths and legends. They were very much real indeed. These people had somehow managed to harness _magic_ through wands and were living amongst normal folk secretly. They had their own communities, their own haunts, their own population – _they were doing all of it in secret._

It was the answer to all of Luke's questions. His whole life had been leading up to these answers. He was finally here. But there was still so much to learn, so much that Darius and the grumpy old commander didn't know.

For example, they had their own train station hidden within Kings Cross. What for? Where exactly? No one knew. Darius had managed to scout the train and figure out that large masses of these wizards somehow entered and exited this secret platform, but he hadn't managed to get onto the platform or train himself. It happened every year on the morning of September the 1st.

That year, Darius even took Luke with him. They stood about inconspicuously between platforms ten and eleven as if waiting for a train. Darius had even brought along very expensive looking luggage for their disguise. They watched as families carrying odd packages and all manner of owls just _disappeared._

"Think they're doing that...that... _apparating_ stuff?" Luke asked as he watched as discretely as he could. The word still tasted odd on his tongue. "To get to their station?"

"Well, no..." Darius the posh man considered. "As far as I'm aware – and I am _very_ aware – they would make a noise if they were. It's a loud business, apparating. No... they must be able to access a secret entrance somehow. Maybe we can't see it because we aren't magic."

They waited there for several hours. Soon, the same odd families exited, some of them with tears on their faces, and left the station. Luke noted that none of the children had returned. Why was that? He rubbed his chin and filed away that bit of information for later. He followed Darius out of the station and back into the sewers to their hide out. Luke remembered all of the wizards faces. Luke never forgot a single thing, after all. It might come in handy in the future.

They made the same trip in December, the whole station bustling with Christmas travellers. One trip turned into two that month. Apparently wizarding folk _really_ liked using the train in December. And apparently they never went anywhere except in groups. How odd. Luke filed that away for future use as well. Something niggled at his brain. It was starting to brew within him, the answer to this question.

When they returned again to watch in June, it hit him.

"I know what it is," he told Darius. "I know what they're using the station for!"

"Well, then!" Darius exclaimed brightly. He was sneakily smoking a cigarette even though they were banned indoors. "We had best return to our lodgings and inform the commander!"

"Why is he called the commander?" Luke finally asked, even though he had been using the title for over a year now.

"Well, because he fought the war in Vietnam, of course!" Darius exclaimed, surprised that Luke hadn't known.

It was with new found respect that Luke greeted Commander James Stewart. Granted, the commander was dressed in nothing but a ratty old pair of once white briefs and that silly old leather jacket, but Luke finally understood why the man was so...crazy. He also knew things might go in their favour if the commander focused. More often than not, _he did._

"They're using it for transportation to school," Luke informed. "For their children. They go away for the year, the children, for the school year. The parents drop them off to this great big red train, the one we saw leaving the station through the back unused tracks. The some of them come home for Christmas!"

"By Gods, boy!" the commander said, slapping him on the back. "Well done, I say! Go on, Darius, write it in the book."

Darius made them all martinis from the vodka in his flask and then added the new discovery to their massive book of notes they had on the population of wizarding freaks.

Luke felt prouder of himself at that moment than he had ever felt in his whole entire life.

It happened on a Tuesday. The commander returned back from one of his disappearances with a bloody bow strapped to his back and a dead owl hanging off his arm. By now Luke knew that the wizard folk used the little birds as means of communication. Why anyone would want to use bird mail, Luke was not sure. It seemed backwards if you had magic at your disposal. It seemed more than a little inconvenient. Phones did seem to be a lot faster in any case.

"Well, look at you," Darius exclaimed, a cigarette dangling between his lips. "You've gone and caught another one! Hopefully this one isn't another dinner invitation."

The commander it seemed spent most of his time securing intel that Darius and Luke could not. This consisted of kidnap, torture, stalking, and bird killing. Apparently their big book of notes about the wizarding world had been drawn from a kidnapped wizard and a hundred dead owls (and their stolen letters). Luke had already had to bury four of these said dead owls. It was surely Darius's turn by now.

"It seems to be a newspaper..." the commander remarked. "What a sight, boys! The pictures seem to be _moving!"_

He hadn't been lying. The pictures _were_ moving. It made his stomach jolt when he looked. _This_ was what had driven his mother to insanity. She didn't even know his name anymore. This is what had caused his father to kill himself. This is what he was going to get his revenge on, this insidious world of evil where pictures moved, where they hunted normal people for _sport..._

It took them quite a while to read the Daily Prophet. The dead owl lay there watching with open eyes. Luke paid it no mind. They were vermin creature, these owls. Shat all over the place all the time.

"Well, where will we get more?" Darius asked, having his fourth martini by that point.

"I suppose I'll scout the same area and shoot another down," the commander said, scratching his beard.

"No, we had better not kill them," Luke suggested, which had nothing to do with the fact that burying owls was a disgusting way to spend his time off work. "Look. It has a pouch tied to its leg."

"Well, so it does..." Darius remarked. When he tugged it, gold coins fell out and silver and bronze. They all stood there staring. "Well, I suppose this is their money, then. I'll have a look see and maybe have this replicated. For the future!"'

He wandered off to make more martinis to celebrate and record their findings. Luke shook his head and turned back to the commander. "Maybe we can find a better way. They're bound to get suspicious if too many of their mail carriers go missing."

"Good thinking, boy!" the commander said. "We'll just catch them and let them go free, then, eh?!"

Gods, the sarcasm on this man...

"No," Luke insisted. "But I have a better idea."

It took three weeks and every spare moment Luke had to track down a wizard family that received the Daily Prophet every day. It had taken some very extensive bird tracking that the commander initially did not approve of. It was far easier to shoot them down for information, after all. But in the end, Luke found the house to which the owl went every day, got paid in their odd currency (hadn't they ever heard of bills? The gold standard was so pre-world war 2) and flew away.

In the end, the commander shot down the owl after the house was found, just because. Darius found a new family to spy on for the book and the lot of them ransacked their garbage every day for valuable information.

It was a quick and easy supply of news. The other two were proud of Luke for this ingenious plan. It seemed Luke was a valuable member of the team after all. He had finally earned Stubby's title (may the old bastard rest in peace) of Muggle #3. Darius made them all martinis to celebrate.

It happened on the day his mother died. The commander had captured a wizard again and had brought him down to head quarters for questioning.

"Go on, tell me more about this Ministry of Magic," the commander demanded.

It happened on November the First, 1981 when the owls went crazy. There were hoards and hoards of them that day. Something serious was going on. At first the three muggles knew not what to do. It wasn't until the damn owls were on the news that the commander got fed up, grabbed his bow, and began to hunt the damned bastards.

It was a couple hours later that he came back, dragging fifty owls with him in a big box and many, many letters. Luke cringed. He didn't fancy having to dig up graves for the lot of them. How morbid was that – a mass grave for owls? Darius didn't seem very disturbed. He went about the feather filled box to collect the letters.

They all pretty much said the same thing.

 _You know who is dead is dead. Let's party._

It happened on Friday the 13th. Darius met Luke's wife for the first time. Luke's son graduated high school. His six year old said the F word. The commander bought a gun and shot a few owls.

Everyone had a martini.

Later that month, there was a troll in the dungeon. It was reported in the Daily Prophet.

It happened two years later. The Daily Prophet wouldn't shut up about it: _Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban._

"Well, do you think we ought to search for him?" Darius asked, smoking two cigarettes at once.

"No," Luke answered. "Not at all."

This happened once and never again.

"Is that a toad?" Luke asked, squinting at the Daily Prophet.

"Well, no, Luke! That's a woman!" Darius exclaimed, leaning a bit closer. "She's called Umbridge."

Later that year You Know Who came back. The commander was not pleased. Darius couldn't tell what the big fuss was. Luke was more concerned about this Potter character. Why were they so obsessed with a teenage boy? He seemed like quite a bratty celebrity criminal. Something would have to be done about him eventually.

It happened gradually when odd things started happening in London. Bridges collapsed. Cyclones. Bad weather. Mass murders. Most normal people thought it was just bad luck all around, but Luke and the other two knew better. They knew there was evil underfoot, this evil magic. If there was ever a time to take action, it was now. But they lacked a plan.

That lack of a plan bit got them into trouble now and again. One wizard in black robes and a mask tore through the high street and blasted the road right in half. The commander tried to chase him with his gun, but was shot with a spell. He lost his arm that day.

Later that month, they killed Darius with a bright green spell. Luke hadn't known what to do. Darius was gone and there was nothing either of them could do about it. Twenty other muggles died on that street. They missed Luke because Darius's had fallen on him with his big trench coat covering the both of them.

Darius left them everything he owned, which was 500 million pounds and an estate in South East St. Albans. They moved their headquarters immediately and drank martinis in his memory.

It happened shortly after the commander died of a heart attack. The Daily Prophet announced it: _He Who Must Not Be Named has been Vanquished by Harry Potter._

Luke was the head of the muggle resistance now. It was all up to him to deal with these bastards and this _Harry Potter_ character. The boy had led a war that had killed innocent normal people. Like him. Like Darius. This was going to be Luke's life now. He quit his job. He left everything behind and devoted every second of every day, thinking about how he was going to get rid of this problem once and for all.

It happened three weeks after his 55th birthday.

His wife cornered him at nine in the morning after the kids had gone to school. She asked him with tears streaming down her face what was wrong with him and if he was sleeping with other women and for god sakes, _why are you never home, Luke_?

"For the last time!" Luke shouted. "I am not having an affair."

" _Fine_ ," she shouted. She knew Luke wasn't the kind of man to hang around other women anyway. He was much too boring. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong, then? You quit your job without telling us! You don't come home for _days._ Do you know anything about your children at all? _Do you even know their names?"_

Did he? He had names floating around his head, but he hadn't created any of those people, no.

"I have things to do. Important things," he said. "I can't just stop now."

"Are you in trouble?" she asked seriously, wiping her eyes. "Is there someone after you?"

"No," he responded just as seriously. "I'm after them."

"Luke! Be serious!" she shouted. "Just tell me what the _fuck_ is going on!"

"I can't," he insisted.

"You must!" she demanded. "Be honest with me!"

"I _won't!"_ he said, finally fed up with the lot of it.

"I'm leaving," she told him. She must have anticipated that this conversation wasn't going to go well because she had already packed her bags. It should've happened years ago, really, but she was weak willed. Frankly, Luke was surprised she'd lasted this long. "I'm taking the kids and we're going to my mother's."

"If you must," he said.

She grabbed her two suitcases and loaded the car, which seemed to already house the kid's things. She was rather prepared, he noted. It was rather sad. He didn't feel a single thing. He'd felt more sad watching the commander die. She looked back exactly three times before she drove off. He thought perhaps she was waiting for him to stop her. But he couldn't, not then. He was too far gone. He had a whole resistance to lead.

She left and that was that. He never saw her again.

It happened ten years later.

He'd managed to do a lot in that time, things that Darius and the commander would've been mighty proud of. He wasn't just Muggle #3 now. He was the leader of an entire army of soldiers that dealt with the pestilence of magic. He had recruited hard for the first couple of years until it was a self recruiting process. He created sleeper cells and whole departments dedicated to research. He had interrogation units and hit squads. He had invested Darius's fortune wisely. He had created a machine.

By that point they had a pretty good map of all the spots the wizards came and went to in London. It was the beginning of a very beautiful plan. Really, all of Luke's work had come up to this moment. His parents were gone. His family had left him. His friends were all dead. And now his empire was beginning. He'd planted the seed. Soon, a revolution would follow.

But revolutions needed a spark. Luke knew this. In order to orchestrate this, Luke was going to have to be the spark, light some fires. It's how it always went. Luke had it all figured out. He'd been orchestrating it for years. The movement in America was brewing. Canada had failed ultimately – their spark had just fizzed out – but Luke had a plan for that later. Europe was just waiting for Luke. All of his followers here were just waiting for the signal.

It happened on September the 1st, 2017. He blended in with the wizard folk taking their annoying little children to their train station. A couple of his men did the same. They'd been practicing this blending bit. They'd stolen an owl and wrapped up the necessary packages to make their way onto the train.

Luke himself walked right behind the man of the hour: Harry Potter. They ran at the barrier, the man and his son, the wall between platform 9 and platform 10. Luke followed because by that point Luke was fearless and had nothing else to lose. There was never a collision. There was also no surprise on Luke's face when he found himself standing on what was labelled platform 9 3/4. Luke had done Diagon Alley just last week, after all. This was a piece of cake.

Luke was emotionless.

He watched his men board the train. He knew about twenty or so of his men were dispersed around Diagon Alley. By now about fifty of his men had infiltrated the Ministry of Magic. There were other groups too – smaller – that were on their way to the targeted magic cities... _residences._

One included his old childhood neighbour. The forgetful idiot never had moved.

All of these men were just waiting. Waiting for him to give the signal. But it wasn't time yet. No, not _just yet._ He watched the man kneel down in front of his son and speak some encouraging words. He saw him hold his wife as the train –boarded by his men – left the platform. He waited until the crowd had dispersed. He waited until his target split off from everyone else to go to the loo. Luke's men had made sure that it would be empty.

 _Just him and me,_ Luke thought.

"Mr. Potter," he greeted as the man washed his hands. He was so sickeningly popular that all he did was nod his head. Disgusting, Luke knew it was. It only made his resolve harden. This was what was needed. He blocked the exit to the doorway. "How does it feel like to be part of a group of murderers?"

Potter turned around and stared at Luke incredulously. Luke had opened his coat. Potter eyed the complicated bomb strapped to his chest and visibly gulped. Luke smiled. He'd waited for this for years. It was all part of the plan.

Luke saw his hand twitch. "I wouldn't reach for that wand. If I let go, the whole station goes with me. Including you. Fancy that!"

"What do you want?" Potter asked. Always rude, always straight to the point.

"I want to know how you feel joining a force of muggle killing bastards. I want to know how you can tolerate _your_ race killing _my_ race! I want to know how you can sit by and claim you're a hero when there's a genocide going on!"

It was the same speech commander had given to him on a million different occasions. If the man had been here, he would've been so bloody proud. Luke wanted to smile at himself, but it would've ruined the effect of commander's speech, so he refrained. It was all going according to plan. They just needed the train to be away from the city before it went too. Luke just had to wait a little bit more for all of this to be over and done with.

And then the revolution would begin.

"Look, mate," Potter said slowly, raising his hands in surrender. It was the same pose that the men who had come into his living room on Christmas day had adopted. But Luke was the one with the power now. There would be no hiding under couches today. "I got rid of Voldemort. We're stopping the muggle baiting with the Death Eaters..."

"But you're an Auror, aren't you?" Potter raised a brow. So haughty. " _Aren't you?"_

"Yes," he said calmly. Luke thought that that was probably something they taught you once they trained you to fuck with muggles. "I am."

"Your people, your Ministry people, came into my home when I was just a little boy," Luke said slowly. "They took my mother and father, laid them on the floor, and took away their memories. We hadn't done nothing to you. We just had the misfortune of living next to a wizard who didn't know his own fucking address!"

"I'm sorry to hear that," Potter said.

"You don't understand what you do to us, do you?" Luke demanded. Of course the insipid man didn't. "That memory charm drove her nuts, did you know that? She didn't know I existed! My father _killed himself because of your people's fucking memory charms!_ "

Potter looked stunned. Luke finally felt happy.

"But that's alright," Luke said. "I forgive you. You probably weren't even born at the time. I'm a reasonable man. I wouldn't hold you accountable for that."

Potter nodded, still not sure what to say. "Thank you."

"But I can hold you accountable for letting the practice carry on," Luke said solemnly.

Potter's eyes widened. "Wait-"

But he was too late. Luke let go of the trigger and all of Kings Cross went up in flames. Not long after, Diagon Alley, the Ministry of Magic, and fifty four neighborhoods were bombed by Luke's men. It was a national tragedy. The muggle news labelled it a terrorist attack. Some group or another took credit for it and more money was spent on fighting over oil.

But the Wizarding population knew what was what. It wasn't coincidental that only magical sites had been attacked. They started beefing up their security too. But it didn't matter. Luke had been building a machine and once that spark was provided – once the revolution started – there was no stopping it. The flames grew so bright, _no one survived it._

It took another decade or so, but after that there was nothing magical about Britain any more. Luke would've been proud. The commander certainly was. Darius was sipping a martini in the afterlife.

No one lived, but for them it was a happily ever after.

 **THE END**

 **Author's Note:** Thank you for reading and please review!


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